


Reunion

by MariposaenArullo



Category: True Detective
Genre: 2012 Marty, 2012 Rust, Drinking, Fighting, First Time, Hand Jobs, Insults, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:07:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariposaenArullo/pseuds/MariposaenArullo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A search for Rustin Cohle + Louisiana brings up a handful of results for an address in the area, a bar called Fat Pat’s that Marty’s never heard of. It’s about twenty or so miles outside of Lafayette. Almost too easy. Marty looks at the screen for a few long moments, twists his jaw around and feels the silence tighten around him like a vice, heart beating deep in his chest like a war drum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [重聚首](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1215949) by [dummybunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dummybunny/pseuds/dummybunny)



> WHY AM I FIRST I AM THE WORST WHY AM I FIRST. Sorry, this is 2012 fic and not 1995 fic. Hopefully I am the first of many superior authors to write this pairing. 
> 
> A couple of things - Fat Pat's is a real bar in Lafayette, also besides that, this is extremely unrealistic. You have been warned. However, I do hope you enjoy, and comment if you'd like!

When Marty gets home that night, the house is empty and cold. To be frank, he doesn’t like his - well, his depositions. Interrogations. Conversations. He doesn’t know what to call whatever the hell he does talkin’ about a near twenty-year-old case that's been closed, should’ve stayed closed. 

Whatever it is, always leaves him feeling sort of spooked after he’s done, getting tingles on the backs of his hands and cold shivers. If Maggie weren’t in Argentina maybe he’d be able to ignore it. But Maggie’s probably not coming back anytime soon, now that the girls are off having their own lives, marriage and school and all that shit that feels fuckin’ ancient to him. And deep down he knows it’s probably best they stay away from each other for a while, even if he does keep wearing the ring out of some kind of misguided hope everything’ll eventually go back to normal. 

But this new shit is messing him the fuck up. Can’t concentrate at work; only barely remembers to take his pills on time. And today the skinny one - Papania, he thinks - asked about that time. The Bad Time. Shit he hasn’t thought about in at least two years.

Just when he thinks he’s gotten to forgetting about Rust, the fucker just pops back up into Marty’s life like he never left. 

Marty drinks two coronas in a half hour, watches reruns of old Saints games for two, and then goes to his computer and, after waggling his fingers impotently over the keys for a bit longer than he’d like to admit, types in the name of his former partner. 

A search for Rustin Cohle + Louisiana brings up a handful of results for an address in the area, a bar called Fat Pat’s that Marty’s never heard of. It’s about twenty or so miles out of Lafayette. Almost too easy. Marty looks at the screen for a few long moments, twists his jaw around and feels the silence tighten around him like a vice, heart beating deep in his chest like a war drum. 

It’s the tequila that makes him do it, he’s near certain. If it were just beer Marty thinks he wouldn’t’ve written down the address, wouldn't’ve fucked off on a drunken search for a man he had left for dead ten years ago. It’s his self-destructive tendencies. Fuckin’ shit programming.

He brings the alcohol too, a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels that he tucks between his thighs as he tries to get to wherever the fuck Rust lives. Doesn’t help that it’s already close to ten o’clock at night by now, and the moon’s dull as a whore’s shoes. Marty turns right into the parking lot in front of a crappy-looking building with a lightless Fat Pat’s sign, parks, and sits. 

Stares at the place for long while, at the paint chipping on the doors, dark windows, one crap jalopy parked a few spaces away from his happily less-shitty car. Marty can’t make out anything inside, but if this is Rust's address, he probably lives in it somewhere. Place is a shithole. Marty wonders whether Rust’s even there. What if he’s - with someone? No. Not that. Marty pushes that question out of his head. He’d thought about it sometimes, back when they were together, whether and how Rust had sex, whether he did it with prosts on that sinless white mattress of his, whether he did it with big fucking hairy men (not likely; thought quickly discarded), whether he hated himself too much to subject another person to his shameful needs. Laurie made him wonder even more, though after they broke it off he just felt sad thinkin’ about it. 

Marty twists off the top of the bottle, takes a slow, long drink. It burns. Good. What’s he thinkin’ about? Oh, yeah - sex - vulernability. It’s about trust, even if you do it with a paid whore (though sometimes with a whore it’s about mistrust, punishment for a broken trust, and those are the ugly ones). In the silence he hears a car door slam shut, dog starts barking - not near him, down the road aways, but tenses anyway. Quiet soon returns, so he relaxes, drinks again. Drums his left hand on his thigh. Looks at nothing. Doesn’’t think about what got him here. Doesn’t think about Maggie. Tries not to think about anything at all.

Fails, of course.

Soon enough, the anger sets in. Feeling pathetic always makes him furious, and the tequila’s shitty help. Starts thinking about The Time again, how his own life’s a mountain of shit, how Rust came in and cracked cases with him and made Marty take his side, let him bring Marty into a whole new world of broken people, broken minds, souls, made a nihilism settle into his soul that only became heavier after they split. 

What the fuck, he’s soon thinking, tequila mostly gone, what the actual fuck gave that ratfuck the right to destroy him like this? And the prick doesn’t even have the decency to fucking leave after fuckin’ Marty up so bad he wants to - wants to - do something to someone. Kill someone. Murder Rust fuckin’ Cohle because he fuckin’ deserves it. Doesn’t he? He’s not even human. Never was. 

On some level, the level that Marty’s developed that allows him to realize when he’s wallowin’ in his own bullshit, Marty realizes he’s wallowing in his own bullshit. Like a kid, drunk and feeling a delusion of absolute suffering, mad as hell but shamefully impotent, and knowing it too. But why would he listen to that bullshit? 

Somehow he gets out of the car, finds the door to the bar. Lights still all off inside, obviously empty on a Sunday night in the Louisiana country. Marty’s so drunk, too drunk to knock quietly. He bangs his fist against the door, once, feels a little spooked by how loud it sounds, and almost takes a step back. But then - no. There’re -there’re things he needs to say to Cohle, things he’s bottled up and maybe he thinks by yellin’ all his thoughts at the other man he’s gonna cleanse himself of some of the bullshit. 

There seems to still be only silence and stillness inside the bar, so Marty bangs again, louder, dares anyone else - and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else livin’ too close around - to come scream at him for the noise. Few seconds later, though, he hears a sort of _thump!_ from inside. A light turns on, probably from a back room. He stands there, waiting. 

First thing he thinks is that Rust looks like shit, hair graying, long, messy, a fringe of fuckin’ mustache above his upper lip. Rust’s got one of his dirty old wife-beaters on and some kind of loose sweatpants. He stands in front of the door with an unreadable look in his eyes, just stands there lookin’ through the glass, and Marty feels himself shrink back from it. He’s forgotten how Rust tore you open with his eyes. Fucker made it look like he saw everything, wasn’t judging - maybe was - but just saw you for you. Saw past the bullshit. Sees Marty now in his fancy suit, loose tie, balding, slight beer gut, drunk enough to try to ignore the fact that he’s a cowardly fool, doing something godawful stupid yet again. 

Marty abruptly realizes he’s too drunk for this. But it’s too fuckin’ late for that. Rust unlocks the door with a slow movement, opens it, stands with his back braced against it to keep it from closing. He folds his arms across his chest, some kind of posturing maybe, because it emphasizes the strength in Rust’s arms, curved muscles covered by skin covered by tattoos from a time before they were together. 

They both stare at one another. Marty feels the need to speak, to explain, but his tongue feels too big in his mouth and he gets lost trying to make out what’s in Rust’s eyes. His eyes look old. Marty wonders whether he’s the same way. 

“Want to come in, Marty?” Rust says finally. Face in-fuckin’-decipherable. Marty feels himself frown a little in confusion, sensing a trap. 

“Alright,” he says evenly. 

He passes close by his former partner as he enters the bar, smells sleep and cigarettes, stale beer and heat. He can only imagine how he smells, tequila, lingers of cheap cologne, cold as the night air. His anger seems to have subsided, shrunk back in his mind, cowed by the sight of Rust Cohle, 2012, in the flesh after so many years.

After they’re both inside, Rust leans against the dark wood of the bar, arms still folded. Marty’s suddenly on edge, because Rust’s not on edge. When Rust acts casual, like Marty’s seen him do with suspects, perps, just normal folk all the time way back when, Marty gets nervous. 

“Want a drink?”

Marty watches his face. “You gonna poison me?” he tries weakly. Falls flat. Rust’s face is still shuttered. 

“Only if you want me to.” 

“Alright, then. Shouldn’t have too much; I already - ” Marty cuts himself off, gestures vaguely. No need to reveal the details, even if he knows Rust can tell. But still. “You got any good scotch?” 

“A little.” Rust goes behind the bar, pulls out a couple glasses, slowly pours them each a couple fingers. He doesn’t try to hand it to Marty, so Marty goes up and grabs the glass himself. Takes a step back again, as Rust takes a sip from his glass. Marty does the same.

“‘Sgood,” he says, with a little wave of his hand. “Uh, thank you.” Rust isn’t lookin’ at him any longer, is staring at the floor with a mystical kind of look. Maybe he’s tired. Should be tired. He should be askin’, Marty thinks, suddenly furious, why the fuck his old partner is bangin’ on his door at nearly eleven at night, with nothing to say and drinkin’ his alcohol. Marty feels the anger flare, an odd sort of righteous indignation against himself about how Rust’s acting so goddamn normal. Like it’s the '90s again and Marty’s just shown up at his apartment to go over some case after being unable to sleep for hours. 

“So,” Marty goes on, unable to bear the silence any longer. “How’s business?” 

At that, Rust’s head comes up, slowly. He takes another sip before answering. Looks Marty in the eyes. “Fantastic,” he says. Looks away.

The anger’s turning into irritation. Marty feels strange. Just tell me to get the fuck out, he wants to scream. Tell me to get the fuck out and never come back, raise your fuckin’ voice for fuck’s sake, show me you still are something. Marty abruptly doesn’t want this Rust, doesn’t trust him, the one who lets Marty in and stands away, nothing on his face not because he wants there to be but because there really is nothing. He doesn’t like this Rust who’s letting himself float in limbo. He wants him to snap. He wants to be the one to make him snap. So he tries something different. 

“You look like shit, don’t you?” he tries at first, lightly, just to see.

Rust twists his mouth around for a second, which Marty counts as a win. “Least I still have all my hair, Marty,” he deadpans. 

“You really like this?” Marty gestures around at the bar. It’s nice, as bars go, homier than Marty would’ve expected. “Workin’ in a bar?”

“You like what you’re doing?” 

“Well, yeah, Rust.” Marty ignores the thrill that goes through him when he says the man’s name again. Been a long time just havin’ it in his head. “It’s smart work. This is for bullshit twenty-somethings who want to flirt with truck drivers.” He goes on, carefully. “Aren’t you too old for this shit? Turnin’ the customers away? You must mix a mean drink to make up for that.” He gestures up and down to Rust, feels a flicker of shame for the words.

But they’re working. Rust clenches his jaw, slowly puts his drink down on the bar. “You come here just to insult me, Marty?” he says. Sounds tense, as much as Rust Cohle can sound tense, and even after so many years, Marty knows him. Fuckin’ finally. Marty affects a shrug, pushes on.

“I don’t want to insult you. Wanted to talk. But -”

“Is this about Maggie?”

Marty’s blood runs cold. Trust the fucker to bring that up. “What about Maggie?” he asks, carefully neutral.

This time it’s Rust who shrugs, straightens from where he’s leaning against the bar, looks Marty straight in the eyes again. It’s electric, this time. Marty starts to regret speaking. Starts to regret coming here. He’s seen Rust flay men with his words, short and blunt and an entire agony of truth, cuts people open. He knows. Rust’s gearing up for one of those quick-speak murders.

He starts off slow, but Marty knows he’s building. “Well, Marty, seein’ as you’ve come to my bar, knocked on my door, drunk, let me add, and in the middle of the night, I figure it’s something about Maggie. Your wife,” he adds, as if Marty’s stupid. Rust shrugs again, still looking straight in his eyes. Punctures his words. “Just a thought.”

“You mean you think I came here to talk about how you fucked her?” The words get pushed out, raw and violent, a wound that never healed. Surprise and something else flashes across Rust’s face at the words, just for a second. Marty doesn't think either of them expected him to be the one to say it. But it’s fact, no matter how much it still hurts. Marty just goes with it, figures it’s time to get it all out.

“I’m a shitty guy, Rust. I know that. I fucked it up with Maggie, for a long time before you came along, and after you two had your affair, or whatever the hell it was, I was worse. We’ve kept whatever fuckin’ farce this is going for ten years, to let the girls grow up with two parents. But Audrey’s gone; Maisie’s gone, and Maggie’s goin’ to leave me. I know. It’s my fault with her. I never was on her level, you know?” 

He chances a look at Rust’s face. Jaw clenched tight, something approaching shame or anger or sadness or revulsion in his eyes. Looks he needs a cigarette, or something stronger. Marty goes on.

“So it’s not you, Rust. Not you. Was never you.” Marty thinks about what his life is now, finds himself going on without knowing what he’s doing. “But why’d you do it, man? We were something together, and didn’t I deserve some kind of loyalty? And you didn’t even do it on purpose, Rust, I know you didn’t. You wanted to make her happy, wanted her too I'd bet, but just wanted to be for her what I wasn’t." Marty feels sick, so he puts his glass down. "Did it make you feel good?” He searches Rust's eyes. Rust’s eyes flicker at the question, like he wants to look away, but he doesn’t, so they keep staring at each other. “Did it feel good to feel in love with her? Did you feel like you were with Claire, like you had a life again, like you were _somebody_?” 

“Shut up, Marty.” The mention of Claire makes Rust look wild, like Marty knew it would. Rust’s right hand is clenched in a fist, eyes dark. “Shut the fuck up about my family.”

Marty closes in. This isn’t about making him feel again, or making Rust feel guilty, ashamed. He wants to know, he wants to hurt. He feels the blood snap and sizzle in his veins, and he _wants_. He wants to splinter the soul of this man and watch it burn to ashes. He takes two steps forward, bringing his face close to Rust’s, whose eyes are open now, dark gray and angry. They’re separated by less than a foot. Marty searches his eyes up close, lets his voice go low. 

“Did you think you had a daughter again, Rust? Did you look at Maisie and think of So - ”

Rust punches him in the gut. Marty almost goes down, but rallies; pain makes him feral. He’s a little woozy from the drinks but he lands a punch square on Rust’s nose, something the old Rust would never have allowed, and is in a split second both frustrated and relieved not to hear a crunch. 

But Rust staggers back and there’s a smear of blood on his face; Marty feels something pull in his gut. Adrenaline. Rust swings at him, and Marty thinks they’re both handicapped by booze and age. He slams Rust against the wall next to the bar, and for a split second their faces are even closer, just inches between, breath mingling. Marty gets a clear image of him slamming Rust against the lockers at the office seventeen years ago, but now they’re -

Marty thinks he’s the one that does it. Swoops up the few inches and shoves his mouth onto Rust’s. It feels strange, a little unpleasant, taste of scotch and stale cigarettes, Rust’s gone stock still and unmoving under him. Not pushing, just. Still. Marty thinks about pulling back, runnin’ out, ignoring the whole thing, but then, he’s already made a fool out of himself tonight, and he wants to see how far he can push his old partner, try and play this out. He doesn't think about why. It doesn’t feel real anyway, feels like a dream. He moves, shifts his mouth, brings one hand up to fist and pull back on Rust’s hair, positioning him how he wants it. Rust’s still not moving, so Marty pulls back.

Rust eyes him from barely inches away, closed-off - if he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, watches Marty like he’s ready for Marty to do something crazy, alert for another punch. Like Marty’s a predator deservin’ of the utmost attention. Marty doesn’t remember Rust ever lookin’ at him that way except for maybe once or twice. Marty likes it. Makes him feel dangerous. It makes him want to keep going. 

"What're you doing, Marty?" Rusts mouth is open, just a sliver, his voice sounds lower, rougher, even though his tone is carefully light, amused almost.

Fuckin’ game of chicken. Marty can play too; even though he’s never touched another man in his life, thought doesn’t sicken him entirely. Rust’s always been - anyway. He moves a little to the left so he can drag his right hand down Rust’s chest, over the thin cotton of the wifebeater, just the tips of his fingers. He slips his hand under the hem, thinks he hears Rust’s breath hitch, but he doesn't look up, lets his hand slide up and around his partner's torso. He's not turned on, exactly, by doing this, but the closeness is making something twist in his abdomen, heat up. Rust always did something to him, made him straddle the line between murderous, despairing, uncomprehending, always just so fuckin’ _mad_. This is just a different kind of gettin’ the anger out, he figures.

"I’m touching you, Rust," he says matter-of-factly. Marty keeps going; doesn't ask for permission. Probably should. He doesn't want to make this easy. "Certainly a better alternative than slamming your head into this wall a few times." He mimics Rust’s tone, meticulously calm. Draw his hand out.

Marty has to steel himself a tick before he moves his hand down and cups Rust through his sweatpants. Other man makes a sound then, quick inhale through his nose. Marty looks up and Rust is staring right at him, like he’s been for a while. Marty grinds the heel of his hand against Rust’s dick, watches Rust's eyes lower to half-mast. When Marty's sure he's half hard, tries to slip his hand under the band of the sweatpants. Mean, how much harder can it be to jerk another guy off skin to skin, than through some fuckin’ sweatpants?

He's surprised when Rust’s left hand cinches tight around his wrist. "I'm not like your girls, Marty," the other man hisses, eyes hard again, aggressive. 

Marty just smiles in Rust’s face, wrenches his wrist gently out of his former partner’s grip. "Can’t be too hard, can it? Just like doing it to yourself." 

He keeps his eyes on Rust’s as he pulls down the sweatpants, finds out Rust isn’t wearing boxers or briefs. Marty takes his dick out, feels the weight of it, raises his eyebrows, gets a look from Rust in return. Marty turns his eyes down again and wraps a hand around him tight, draws out another punched-out breath. He jacks Rust off like how he'd do himself, adds a roughness that Rust doesn't protest, seems to like. As much as Marty can tell he likes it, from the heavy breathing, Rust’s right hand squeezing his left shoulder so tight Marty's sure it'll leave bruises. Breaths get heavier as time goes on, so Marty moves his hand faster and faster. Rusts breathing gets rough, harsh, and Marty feels it on his neck, which makes him feel - 

All the warning he gets before Rust comes is a mangled sort of groan; the grip on his arm goes loose one moment then vice-tight the next. Marty milks the orgasm out of him, goes slow like he normally does with himself, dares to bite-suck a hickey onto Rust’s neck, which earns him a shuddering breath. 

They stand together like that for a long while, Marty unsure of what to do. He's got come on his hand, fucking Rust Cohle’s come, and he gives Rust a minute to catch his breath before he takes a step back. Carefully doesn't look at Rust, who’s pulled up his sweatpants, starin’ at the floor, still breathing a tad heavy. Marty gets a little worried after Rust doesn't speak for too long, keeps staring. Marty didn’t want to goddamn break him. He tries, "Where should I wash up?" Wonders if his voice sounds different. 

Rust stays still for a few more moments, then finally straightens up and coughs, a short bark, twists his jaw and looks to the side. "Uh, here." Voice sounds cracked, somehow. Hoarse. Marty’s stomach turns as Rust goes behind the bar, grabs a dishrag, throws it to him. Still no eye contact. Marty wipes his hand, throws it back. Stands there, feeling stupid. 

Finally, Rust speaks. "Should I pay you?" Marty looks up from the floor to find Rust giving him another look, inscrutable again, voice on its way to being back to that same light, prickly kind of amused. Marty looks at him, takes in the disheveled hair, clothes, feels like he’s seein’ him, for the first time, first time in a long time, even if he can’t read what Rust’s thinking. 

"Fuck you," he says, feeling a thrill go through him. He looks at Rust and thinks. Says, “I’m sorry. I never - never bothered to know you. Fuck,” he rubs at his jaw with his hand. “Should’ve been a better - “ Partner, he thinks, but says, “a better man.” Rust says nothing, but then, Marty doesn’t expect him to. They look at each other for a few more moments, just considering. Marty says, "I should go." Knows he’s going to see Rust again, that their paths are intertwined like some shit out of a romance novel. Life ain’t gonna let them ignore each other anymore. Not anymore. 

Marty moves to the door, opens it. Feels like he needs to add something, so he says, “Place ain't so bad, Cohle.” Grins. “Maybe I'll come by for a drink sometime.”

Rust looks at him, blinks slow, smiles, no teeth, just a slight upturn of the lips. Marty gives him one back, on a split second decision, because he's always been a little shit, grins again and winks. Leaves then, and doesn't look back.


End file.
